That this book even exists is something of a marvel, a fortuitous happenstance right out of a novel itself! It paints a vivid, albeit somewhat anachronistic portrait of the city of Paris of the future, in 1960, 97 years after this account was written (1863). It's a startling look into what a literary luminary of the 19th century thought the future would be like, although it was written fairly early in his career, denying him the luxury of a lifetime of hindsight, which may have made it even more accurate than it might have been otherwise. I can see why it was not published in its own lifetime: it's quite complex: it's simultaneously (if not seamlessly) part prophesy, part diatribe against modernity (or perceived modernity), and part nouveau fairy tale.
Perhaps most striking, this novel was almost lost to history. Verne died in March, 1995, from complications arising from diabetes, at his home in Amiens. His only child, son Michel (the same name as the primary protagonist in the story, which is rather telling), facilitated publication of his remaining novels, but omitted the previously-rejected handwritten manuscript. Verne's publisher, Pierre-Jules Hetzel, apparently believed that the pessimistic and critical tone of the work would damage his career. He was also highly critical of it, however, according to some rather scathing editorial comments which appear in the margins of the original handwritten copy, some of which label it "lackluster" and "lifeless." Reportedly, one letter stated: "even if you were a prophet, no one today would believe this prophesy... they simply would not be interested in it." Thus, Verne deposited it in a safe, where it lay undisturbed until 1989, when Verne's great-grandson discovered it in a locked safe. Ostensibly because many men of the future WOULD believe some of the "prophesies" contained herein, it was published in the original French in 1994.
That there would be a lack of interest clearly wasn't the case, although, legitimately, it may have taken an additional century or so for the work to be actually appreciated. It would have been more so, perhaps, were it discovered in the year 1960! Regardless, its pages reveal that the degeneracy to which nineteenth-century figures believed the future would descend has largely come to pass: art, literature, music - all have devolved to a state that not even the likes of Jules Verne or H.G. Wells could imagine. For example, when three artists are sitting around lamenting the lack of culture in this future age, which has regressed in favor of the tireless march of industry, they note the following, which is startlingly prophetic:
"So, at last... we're going to have a little music."
"But not modern music... it's too hard."
"To understand, yes," Quinsonnas replied, "but not to make."
"How's that"? asked Michel.
"I'll explain... and I'm going to support what I say with a striking example. Michel, be so good as to open the piano." The young man obliged. "Good. Now, sit down at the keyboard..." Michel lowered himself onto the keys of the instrument and produced a jangling clash of sounds. "Do you know what you've just done?" asked the pianist.
"I haven't a clue!"
"Innocent! You've just created modern harmony... Really, that's a perfect chord for our times, and the awful thing about it is that today's scholars take it upon themselves to explain it scientifically! In the past, only certain notes could be sounded together; but they've been reconciled since then, and now they no longer quarrel among themselves - they're too well brought up for such a thing!"
"But the effect is still just as unpleasant," Jacques put in.
â¦
"But... it's as if you were making a painting without drawing or color!" (!!!)
"Precisely," replied Quinsonnas. "And now that you've mentioned painting..."
A number of other books have discussed the sad state of the latter at length. In short, as Q. states, "My son, music is no longer tasted, it is swallowed... we endure the nauseating 'melody of the virgin forest,' insipid, confused, indeterminate, or else various harmony rackets are produced, of which you have given us such a touching example by sitting on the piano."
This is precisely the state of modern "classical" instrumental music, and art, too: paintings without paint, sometimes consisting of actual blank canvases, or ingredients too vulgar to relate here.
There are some fortunate, and also lamentable, mistakes: the lack of military is perhaps the most glaring of the book's forgivable sins. Jacques muses, "the day a war earns as much as an industrial investment, then there'll be wars." Sadly, the two are now inextricably linked. On a related note, the death of party politics he relates ("there are no parties in France: the royalists are in trade now, and the republicans in industry") is nowhere near coming to fruition, in France or elsewhere; in fact, the question posed by one of the characters "who bothers with politics now?... war is no longer possible, and diplomacy is old fashioned," is demonstrable: everyone, as party politics remains one of the most vicious contentions of the present-day. JV also underestimates the value of art, when he states that "there are no ore canvasses, even in the Louvre... there hasn't been an exhibition in fifty years." Art, especially that of former decades and centuries, is more popular than ever, selling for record amounts at auction; alas, however, this is often due less to its appeal and more to its investment value. At least it's still being cared for, and frequently displayed, as little gives the wealthy more joy than conspicuous display of public largess.
This book was perplexing, but profound: it's certainly a product of its time, and is highly revealing of the direction nineteenth-century figures believed that the world was heading toward, or descending to, depending. Most of those I've read concerning beliefs of the future are primarily concerned with culture, or the lack thereof, as the industrial age seemingly emphasized industry over art, which deeply disturbed the literary figures of the day. Time will likewise tell whether the full weight of their prognostications will come to pass.
Perhaps most striking, this novel was almost lost to history. Verne died in March, 1995, from complications arising from diabetes, at his home in Amiens. His only child, son Michel (the same name as the primary protagonist in the story, which is rather telling), facilitated publication of his remaining novels, but omitted the previously-rejected handwritten manuscript. Verne's publisher, Pierre-Jules Hetzel, apparently believed that the pessimistic and critical tone of the work would damage his career. He was also highly critical of it, however, according to some rather scathing editorial comments which appear in the margins of the original handwritten copy, some of which label it "lackluster" and "lifeless." Reportedly, one letter stated: "even if you were a prophet, no one today would believe this prophesy... they simply would not be interested in it." Thus, Verne deposited it in a safe, where it lay undisturbed until 1989, when Verne's great-grandson discovered it in a locked safe. Ostensibly because many men of the future WOULD believe some of the "prophesies" contained herein, it was published in the original French in 1994.
That there would be a lack of interest clearly wasn't the case, although, legitimately, it may have taken an additional century or so for the work to be actually appreciated. It would have been more so, perhaps, were it discovered in the year 1960! Regardless, its pages reveal that the degeneracy to which nineteenth-century figures believed the future would descend has largely come to pass: art, literature, music - all have devolved to a state that not even the likes of Jules Verne or H.G. Wells could imagine. For example, when three artists are sitting around lamenting the lack of culture in this future age, which has regressed in favor of the tireless march of industry, they note the following, which is startlingly prophetic:
"So, at last... we're going to have a little music."
"But not modern music... it's too hard."
"To understand, yes," Quinsonnas replied, "but not to make."
"How's that"? asked Michel.
"I'll explain... and I'm going to support what I say with a striking example. Michel, be so good as to open the piano." The young man obliged. "Good. Now, sit down at the keyboard..." Michel lowered himself onto the keys of the instrument and produced a jangling clash of sounds. "Do you know what you've just done?" asked the pianist.
"I haven't a clue!"
"Innocent! You've just created modern harmony... Really, that's a perfect chord for our times, and the awful thing about it is that today's scholars take it upon themselves to explain it scientifically! In the past, only certain notes could be sounded together; but they've been reconciled since then, and now they no longer quarrel among themselves - they're too well brought up for such a thing!"
"But the effect is still just as unpleasant," Jacques put in.
â¦
"But... it's as if you were making a painting without drawing or color!" (!!!)
"Precisely," replied Quinsonnas. "And now that you've mentioned painting..."
A number of other books have discussed the sad state of the latter at length. In short, as Q. states, "My son, music is no longer tasted, it is swallowed... we endure the nauseating 'melody of the virgin forest,' insipid, confused, indeterminate, or else various harmony rackets are produced, of which you have given us such a touching example by sitting on the piano."
This is precisely the state of modern "classical" instrumental music, and art, too: paintings without paint, sometimes consisting of actual blank canvases, or ingredients too vulgar to relate here.
There are some fortunate, and also lamentable, mistakes: the lack of military is perhaps the most glaring of the book's forgivable sins. Jacques muses, "the day a war earns as much as an industrial investment, then there'll be wars." Sadly, the two are now inextricably linked. On a related note, the death of party politics he relates ("there are no parties in France: the royalists are in trade now, and the republicans in industry") is nowhere near coming to fruition, in France or elsewhere; in fact, the question posed by one of the characters "who bothers with politics now?... war is no longer possible, and diplomacy is old fashioned," is demonstrable: everyone, as party politics remains one of the most vicious contentions of the present-day. JV also underestimates the value of art, when he states that "there are no ore canvasses, even in the Louvre... there hasn't been an exhibition in fifty years." Art, especially that of former decades and centuries, is more popular than ever, selling for record amounts at auction; alas, however, this is often due less to its appeal and more to its investment value. At least it's still being cared for, and frequently displayed, as little gives the wealthy more joy than conspicuous display of public largess.
This book was perplexing, but profound: it's certainly a product of its time, and is highly revealing of the direction nineteenth-century figures believed that the world was heading toward, or descending to, depending. Most of those I've read concerning beliefs of the future are primarily concerned with culture, or the lack thereof, as the industrial age seemingly emphasized industry over art, which deeply disturbed the literary figures of the day. Time will likewise tell whether the full weight of their prognostications will come to pass.
